The Price of a Mile
by Hetfield'sHair
Summary: War can be an adventure. Rated M, because, Trench Warfare is not family friendly.


On your face you can feel the falling rain, the ground beneath your slicked with mud that feels like it might pull you in, like it had so many others. Your hand wrapped loosely around your rifle, unable to concentrate on even the slightest of things, you felt your mind wander at a thousand miles per second. Your mask had fallen off, but there was no need. The pungent smell of chlorine still perfumed the air, but the imminent danger of gas had been blown away with the wind.

The scarf your friend had loaned you blew loosely in the wind, and, for all the nothing you were worth, you couldn't even find him among the restless dead. Within just twenty minutes, all the Preperation you underwent, all the training you were forced to undergo, was utterly undone. Your ears were bleeding, or, at least they felt like they were, a ringing so piercing that it drowned out your every thought. You were as still as a corpse, too frightened to even shake, until a hand fell upon your shoulder.

"What the hell're y' doin'? Yer just standin' there! They'll be back any second now-" You felt a tug, and you managed to snap out of it, panting softly before turning to face your compatriot. He was missing his left hand, and was laden with minor wounds, undoubtably shrapnel from his endeavor out of the trenches. Looking about the battlefield, you saw some Mechanical Contraption halfway over your lines, though split wide open due to a suicidal attempt from, who you can only assume, was Eridan Ampora, the man standing in front of you. He was poorly bandaged and pale from bleeding, and shouted at you with abandon, begging you to take cover. You obliged silently, allowing him to drag you into the confines of your trench.

You compulsively checked your weapon whilst kneeling against the wooden wall, assuring your companions that you were fine, while more seemed to climb in after you. It was eerily silent, and the bombardment had stopped, the enemy only halted due to you and your squadron managing to push them back, all while in an arm's reach of any variety of shovels, rocks, or removed helmets. You had seven shots left, counting each as you robotically pushed it into the magazine of your weapon. With two left, you pouched them, rocking the bolt forward haphazardly and locking the round in place. You swallowed dryly, throat sore from shouting, and turned to the Hungarian sitting beside you.

"Eridan?" You choked his name out, and he immediately looked back to you, worry plastered on his face. "Kar?" He sat up straight, pushing his left hand into his coat. He was right handed before today, and you could see him forget momentarily that the appendage was gone, reaching to pick something up before recalling his arm and sighing. "Are you fucking _okay_?" The words spilled from you, and you cursed with emotion, rather than bitterness. You had been crying for the past ten minutes, but you didn't realize until your voice cracked. "Kar, I-I'm fine, Kar." He repeated your name twice, and he _wasn't anywhere near fine._ But you believed him, simply because you had to. He drew a cigarette from his coat and placed it between his chaffed lips, pursing them and spitting out a miasma of curses as he searched for his matchbox.

He scratched it against the plank backboard and it lit up, illuminating your cove as he touched the flame to his well-earned drug. He exhaled with both relief and smoke, the smell somehow more pleasant than that of the million men who died at your figurative doorstep. You heard a whistle and a magnificently horrifying boom, hands shooting up to your helmet as your eyes flew shut. Dirt and mud cascaded down from the sky, and before it had all fallen, another shell struck nearby. You heard a bloodcurdling scream and a body tumbled overhead, blood spattering ground already soaked in it before the fellow was caught by the uniform on a tree. A shudder racked you as you identified the fellow as Sollux Captor, the colorblind man from your hometown of Leipzig. He was limp, dangling in the sky as blood poured down his jacket. You poked your head up to check the severity of the wounds, and before you saw more than his lack of legs, a hand yanked you down from enemy view.

"Are you mad? There's about fifteen-hundred men waitin' t' blow yer goddamned 'ead off! You spend more 'an a millisecond like that, and every last one a'em'll be drawin' a bead on y'." Eridan warned you with the kindest words he could muster, his grip failing as his hand shook violently. He was just as shocked as you by your kin's departure, but he wouldn't show it, wanting to keep you from panicking. The shells fell with reckless abandon, and one landed just around the corner, spraying dirt your way but the sharp turn helping to foil the blast, your eccentric friend beginning to hyperventilate, and you unsure of how to help him. You told him to calm down and that it was okay, and he believed you, amazingly enough. Just as the rain, the shellfire becoming increasingly frequent, until it all suddenly stopped, with the blow of a whistle.

You sat up and fumbled for your periscope, Eridan furrowing his brow and drawing his C96 from the dirt, mechanism likely clogged and bullets far and few between. You put the glass over the mud, spying the next enemy onslaught. They were scattered, and less numerous than before, but still, a third more than you had capable of combat. Dropping the tool, you lifted your rifle, the length of your Gewehr 98 catching on a wall before you could fully ready it. You dared not look over the trench, and you knew that any second now, your reprieve would end with-

The whistle sounded and your ears rang, The Ampora grabbing you and yelling for you to stay put. You begged him not to go and rose with him, at least Five-hundred closing on your lines. You felt petrified. He left with everyone else, and before you could begin to climb out, rifle-fire lit up the night, shouts filling the gaps where the ring of shots didn't reach. You pulled your- his- scarf over your mouth, and shouldered your weapon, ducking down and running to catch up with them. You couldn't lose them all. Why should you live any longer than them? You hadn't one sole at home waiting for you. Your father disowned you when he found out some unseemly things about you, and you had never met your mother. Sollux, the only friend you had growing up, lay dead a hundred yards behind you, and, before you could recall any more, a body tumbled past you and your running ceased, focusing in on the horror before you. Another one of the men you met in bootcamp, Equius Zahhak, was struggling to fend off a man who had pinned him down, the two in a crater as the Canadian struggled to lodge his bayonet in his thorax, the other against a wall.

You readied your weapon and aimed as steadily as you could, finding not even the strength to pull the trigger when you tried. You gritted your teeth and choked back a sob, and, before you could attempt again, a stray bullet struck you somewhere in the body, falling down and slipping onto your back as your helmet swung around by the straps and landed on the ground, black, unkempt hair, blowing in the wind as you fumbled at your uniform to access the wound. Right to the left of your chest. Breath slowing and vision blurring, a hand slid underneath your shirt and felt it. A clean hole, all the way through. It hit nothing important, but you had no way of knowing, hissing and gasping with pain as time passed a second to eternity. You wanted to pass out- you needed it to end- but nothing would. At this rate, the whole world will remain engulfed in war. And should someone win, it won't be you. The Americans were near. The Canadians were here. And the French and British wanted you all to pay.

Groaning with pain, you rolled over, climbing out of your hole and finding your rifle. You threw yourself up all too fast, and shambled forward. Equius was slumped over in his crater, and You stumbled sideways just in time to evade a whipped around and fired, missing him and nailing the dirt. You jerked at the bolt and it didn't budge, the sir flinging his shovel your way with a vicious yell and you, blocking the hit with your rifle. It fell from your hands and smacked into the dirt, bracing yourself for the next hit. He grabbed you and asked you to look at him before you died, but the message was in a foreign language and it reached you after the spade. Red spots formed in your eyes and you fell down, You having crossed lines at some point, now having turned around enough to see Eridan fighting one-handedly with his Saber. He was a cavalryman before the stalemate, and his weapon of choice stayed with him, even down here.

He deflected hit after hit, landing strikes on the soldiers that surround him, and for a moment, you thought he could win, flinging one back with a swipe to the chest and spinning to pierce the chest of another. You heard him cry out when a bayonet found itself in his back, relinquishing his sword and falling down atop his victim. The man atop him grabbed a fistful of his hair, and- You missed the killing blow. Knees fell on either side of you and you reached out with desperation to grab something, anything. He struck your left arm and you shouted with pain, the shovel falling beside him and his hands around your windpipe in moments. The way his thumbs crushed your throat made you gag and cough, scrabbling at the mud and finding a stone. It flew into his head and your vision faded, him groaning and falling to your side. You rolled over and tried to climb out of the mud, fingers digging into the playable ground as you rose from the hole, inch by inch, freedom in sight-

And he grabbed you by the shoulder. Karkat Vantas, The man who joined the army at Sixteen, ready to fight for his country, was helpless now, time slowing down just after you began to plead for mercy. You shouted, cried, anything, but you only could say two things before it all went black. You had shut your eyes just beforehand, and a horrific crunch followed by a thud was heard. You thought it was your specter, overhearing your death. But you could open your eyes, and you realized that you had been saved. Rolling over, you saw David Strider, an aristocrat who you fantasized about killing a hundred times before the war. But here, in your moment of weakness, you could worship him. You only knew it was him because of the look in his scarlet eyes, a mask covering his face, a raiding club in hand, and armor donned. As if he were a knight. He didn't help you up, as if _telling_ you to stay down, leaping out and darting off. You reached down and took your Knife out, rifle long gone. You cluttered out of the dirt, and you definitely had a minor concussion.

It was the worst thing you had ever seen. Everyone you knew had died. The man who saved you two moments ago had been shot thrice in the neck with a handgun, and you were being aimed at next. Your knife was weakly grasped in your hand, and he almost looked sympathetic. Like he could stop, and go home, right now. You abused that compassion and ran for him, the first shot missing you to the right, and the second missing over your head due to recoil. You tackled him, and spat an insult in your native tongue into his face, burying your dagger in his shoulder. He gave a piercing scream, and before you could draw the weapon out, a cool metal touched your chin, and you knew it was over. Your eyes, dialated to the extreme, focused upon him, and you exchanged glances. Tears streamed down your face and onto the scarf covering your mouth, your eyes shutting, and your breathing erratic.

You payed the price of a mile.


End file.
